


all out of breath now

by Catznetsov



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: It’ll be Tom’s fault for not letting them escape when he could have, earlier, if someone from the party just on the other side of the wall overhears.It’s Tom’s fault for faultless professionalism that Evgeny has to back him up against hardwood paneling instead of laying him out in bed, and if it takes an hour to get where he’s going, that’ll only be fair punishment for Tom being so big.





	all out of breath now

**Author's Note:**

> Kuz is a Russian prince studying in Canada, Tom is his temporary RCMP bodyguard, everyone is bad at words but that's the extent of the power dynamic and the pretext for the porn.

It’ll be Tom’s fault for not letting them escape when he could have, earlier, if someone from the party just on the other side of the thin wall overhears. It’s Tom’s fault for faultless professionalism that Evgeny has to back him up against hardwood paneling instead of laying him out in bed, and if it takes an hour to get where he’s going he thinks with hot satisfaction that’ll only be fair punishment for Tom being so big. 

Evgeny might be able to fit his whole face between the curves of his pectorals; he noses contemplatively along the swell of one of them, still over fabric, bites just before reaching the point of his nipple and just again after, lifting his mouth for a moment to pass over so Tom must be able to feel the heat through cotton. There’s the hem of his shirt, as far as one of them had managed to unbutton it, and Evgeny bites again and works it aside. Most of his face, it turns out, and he breathes there for a minute, feeling Tom’s skin heat, tries a few close-mouthed kisses and then something more like a lick. He’s deliberating, trying to choose what to do next, and he knows in the moment that he can’t think straight, but then if this seems deliberately cruel that’s only what Tom deserves. He takes another breath, and it must be cold over the last wet kiss, because Tom shakes. 

The next curve is right there, and Evgeny turns his face into it, shoving under the shirt this time to trace it with more kisses. Tom’s shivering-tight, and now his chest is rising and falling as if he’s just run miles, as if he thinks Evgeny’s in danger, as if he’s pulled him out of a hiding place in the hedges and unceremoniously picked him up to haul him home. Evgeny only has to let his mouth fall open and Tom’s pressing himself into it, the peak of his nipple just there between his lips and gone again when Tom gasps with empty lungs and tries to press back further into the wood. Evgeny lets him until he has to scrape in another breath and there it is again, and this time Evgeny draws his teeth over the fine skin just above and below and silently dares Tom to try and slip away again. 

Tom buckles, and gasps, and then he pushes into it for real, shoulders digging back into the wall and trying to work himself into Evgeny’s mouth. Evgeny gentles his teeth and tries to open wider to take more of him, but, well, Tom’s big. He has to draw back and this time when Tom almost cries out Evgeny almost wants to apologize, but he sets his mouth quickly back under the swell of muscle instead. 

Tom does his best to keep his upper chest smooth in the summer, maybe because the kevlar rubs, or maybe he just likes it like that. Maybe he thinks pretty girls and boys like that, and Evgeny bites him for the thought, then makes himself stop and soften his mouth, feeling for stubble. He tracks along the arc of Tom’s ribs, the first of his abdominals, and if it takes him too long to feel the fine beginning of Tom’s treasure trail, Tom really should have thought of that.

By the time he feels warm steel under his jaw, the corner of Tom’s belt buckle, Tom’s rough breaths have risen into gasps. Evgeny finishes kissing each curve of his abdominals the way he had all the others, nuzzles into the high hollow of each of his hips, and then lets go of where he’s been absently holding onto Tom for support to drop back more steadily onto his heels. With a little more space when he looks up through his lashes he can see the whole red sweep of his work, and then Tom’s mouth, desperate, pink, when Evgeny hasn’t even bitten at it yet, and Tom’s eyes, huge, for once exactly where they shouldn’t be, where Evgeny always wants them. He presses the tiniest chaste kiss to Tom’s belt buckle.

If Tom was waiting for a sign, that must have been it. If he’s waiting for Tom to break, Tom breaks beautifully. He doesn’t say please, or anything else, only, “Zhenya,” over and over again. Evgeny kisses his belt again and gets a sliver of his skin, and Tom says, “Mary mother of Christ,” and then it’s back to breathing, his gasps falling into deeper, steady labor, rumbling in his chest.

“So,” Evgeny says. “I’m gonna blow you, okay? Don’t think you mind.”

Tom doesn’t manage to say anything either way, so Evgeny rocks back up on his heels to press a few more kisses to his belly, moving up, away from Tom’s belt. The sound Tom makes must be agony.

“Please,” he says. “I’m, I mean,” and, “Zhenya. Please, babe,” and there’s the crack right down the middle of his professionalism that Evgeny’s been hunting for. 

“Okay well if you want,” he says. He buries his face back in the hollow of Tom’s navel so Tom has some heat to think about, tugs and pushes blindly at Tom’s belt until he hears that metal snick and rush of leather, feels Tom’s waistband slip and his muscles seize. He pulls back to look because he wants to imagine that by now all Tom can think of is keeping him close, and the sound Tom makes as Evgeny’s mouth leaves his skin makes that easy to believe. 

The fantasy rushes and sparks in his stomach, the way Tom had looked last time when he’d said _do you want—_ and Evgeny had thought it sounded like _please can I—?,_ the thought of Tom properly begging to touch him. 

He can hear his own breath now, thick and stupid, and after all that his mouth doesn’t want to close empty. He’s hot, not just from rubbing against Tom’s skin, his own cheeks are aching. He’s blushing. From Tom’s perspective he must look just like everyone else who’s gone weak at the knees for Tom’s cock, and he hasn’t even gotten it out. The twining embarrassment and longing kick him in the lungs, and he orders himself to get moving. So, well, he thinks deliberately, if it takes him an hour to get anywhere, that’ll only be punishment for Tom being so big. 

Tom’s briefs are dark against his skin. Evgeny wants to know before he touches if they’re wet, if he’s soaking the fabric, if it’s hot, if it’s been dragging over him this whole time when Evgeny moves him. He wishes Tom wore paler underwear.

He’s lost track of his hands; he reaches out and the first brush of his fingertips over dry cotton makes his stomach flip even when that makes no sense, Tom’s unambiguously hard, obviously likes this enough for that, so what if he isn’t near coming just from looking at Evgeny or whatever like in his fevered imagination. Then his hand curls, he’s tugging Tom’s briefs down and his fingers are skating over soft hair, slipping, a little slick sound.

He tests, just the tips of two fingers, tracing up the length of Tom’s cock. It’s enough, he thinks distantly, the press of words in his head retreating again; he won’t have to wet his hand before working Tom, while he figures out how much he can take in his mouth. He could anyway, or tease with his breath, but all he manages is to hold Tom steady and press a simple, artless kiss to the broad head.

Tom quakes like he’s been punched. His thighs on either side of Evgeny go wire-tight; there’s a thump from wherever he’s keeping his hands, scraping over the wood. Evgeny almost draws back to look up and Tom’s hips finally leave the wall, just an inch, straining after him and slamming roughly back. Evgeny pushes at his thigh.

“Tom, shhh,” he says, reproving, wondering too. At the edge of his vision he sees Tom nod, hears his breath hitch and break and start again, but he’s already drifting back in. Maybe this kiss is for moving; the next is for the sound of Tom’s head against the paneling. At the next Tom moans, his muscles finally easing. 

Evgeny leaves his mouth there, lets his lips part how they want to, lets the head slide over his tongue. It’s thick enough to fill his mouth, but the blunt shape feels more approachable than Tom’s full girth looked circled in his hand. It’s addictively, logic-defyingly soft. He thinks about chocolate melting silky on his tongue, and then thinks he might be the one melting, then thinks maybe this is thinking too much again.

He lets the head slip out, rubbing over his lips, then takes it in again, learning Tom’s shape by touch just like the rest of him. The tip of his tongue finds the delicate slit, circles the ridges, catches burst of bitter precome and brushes a vein.

Tom’s as still as he was the first time Evgeny was given his name, watching everything in a suit that hadn’t fit, but now Evgeny can hear him panting for it.

When he’s ready he sinks down a little further, lets it slide and takes it again. He draws his fingers up to meet his mouth, wets them with a little of Tom’s slick or his own saliva and paints them down again, then starts working Tom at a kinder pace than anything else tonight while he keeps playing with the head. 

He startles when Tom’s hand covers his, palm aching hot. Tom’s thumb traces his little finger, rough callus and the lightest touch, and Evgeny thinks he’s going to push his hand away or press, taking himself in hand to move faster and tighter. Instead Tom’s thumb kisses over each of Evgeny’s knuckles, and then he sighs and shoves his own hand down, trousers and the waistband of his briefs slipping down his hips until he can cradle his balls, kneading in, allowing Evgeny space to move freely. Evgeny can’t decide if he wants it or not. 

He twists his wrist, meaner than before, laps at the slit before sinking down again until Tom bumps the roof of his mouth, sliding back, then lets him go again. When he pushes back in Tom’s knuckles brush his jaw. He’s shaking.

“Oh, Jesus,” Tom says, clutches at himself. “Oh. Zhenya—” and Evgeny wants to see his face, but he doesn’t dare to look up. He wants to pull back to breathe, and wants Tom to drag him back in, and knows Tom isn’t going to. He keeps his hand working, salt on his tongue.

Tom says, “Zhenya,” almost lost in another bubble of noise from the party they’d forgotten. His hand is so close. Evgeny pulls off, a slick sound, and manages to say, “You can, go ahead,” before he kisses a new spot on the side, then under the ridge, then finds his favorite velvet curve of the head again.

It isn’t the best order, but whatever Tom thinks it means, he takes it. He gasps and lets himself go, breath catching rough, and two of his big blunt fingers find Evgeny’s cheek as he takes Tom in again, the corner of his mouth.

“You are so, so beautiful,” Tom confesses, and then drags his hand away again. 

Evgeny needs more, whatever Tom is willing to give him. He pulls back, just the head between his lips, looks up as well as he can through his lashes and his hair trying to find Tom’s face. In the dim light Tom’s lip looks bitten, red and bruised. He hears Tom moan, feels it around him as he sinks down again, makes some sound in his own throat hoping Tom can feel it too, and then Tom’s shaking apart, thick on his tongue and his lips as he has to pull back. 

Over him, all around him, Tom’s closer than air, heartbeat and heat. Evgeny’s eyes close without him telling them to, and like this could be floating or falling, and he’ll never know the difference, and if Tom were there to catch him, he wouldn’t be afraid. 

When his head tips forward, Tom’s hand is there, a self-contained mountain range of bones for him to kiss. Tom turns his hand into the touch, palming Evgeny’s jaw, the callus of his trigger finger sweeping slow down Evgeny’s cheek. His thumb finds the center of Evgeny’s lip, and Evgeny turns too, thinks about finding his nail to press into, for anything sharp.

“You’re…” Tom says, and his thumb slicks through his own come at the edge of Evgeny’s mouth. He might be looking there, or down. "I shouldn't, I'm so — "

Evgeny rocks back, and stands up. He still fits against Tom’s curves, just like he’s always thought he did. He tucks Tom back into his briefs, tugs at his trousers and buttons them neat again. Tom’s hands are between them, only trapped because Tom won’t dare to move. His fingers hesitate over the belt buckle, and he leaves it for Tom to do as soon as his professionalism unfreezes enough.

He ducks his head, breathing salt and strain in the hollow of Tom’s neck, a shadow of the taste in his mouth and the heat he’d just had. “Who’s fault is that?” he asks into Tom’s neck, closes his eyes, and steps back. For the first time, he doesn’t think he knows. 

Tom stays where he thinks he’s been put. His eyes drag over Evgeny, mouth hard, as if this is something else he should protect Evgeny from, embarrassment, or his own cock in Evgeny’s mouth, or Evgeny’s aching untouched in his jeans.

“Your Highness,” is all he says. 

“Great, okay,” Evgeny says. “So I’m gonna go.”

"I should walk you back," Tom offers.

"Was your night off," Evgeny reminds him. "So, no. You really shouldn't."


End file.
